Her Epilogue
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: River knows that immorality isn't peaceful; the Doctor taught her that. Eleven returns to the Library.


Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who but I do possess much fondness for River Song, whatever the haters may say.

_Her Epilogue_

He's not as fond of libraries as he used to be. They were all right when they held other people's adventures, but the older he gets, the more he finds bits of his own life stuck in one. His swimming pool, for instance. His wife. As though the universe were determined to remind him that eventually he'll be just another story.

Plus, the last time he was in this library, the shadows ate people. That's a big part of it as well.

The Doctor blinks slowly as his screwdriver works its magic, interacting with the code of the computer, sending messages up the wires attached to his temples. Won't be much longer. He wonders if it will feel like falling asleep-

-it's a field. No, it's a lawn, but the house is very far away. The grass is a pale, tawny green and the sky is peacefully colorless. He breathes in deeply. The intricate coding of a machine child's dreams, invading his mind: that's all it is. But he swears he can smell hyacinth.

She's wearing a white dress to her ankles, with bare feet underneath, and her hair flows down nearly to her waist. She looks old in a way that he didn't know humans could manage: not in her face, or even her eyes, but in the way her gaze _moves_.

"I knew you'd be the you who'd come and let me go." River smiles. The Doctor huffs.

"Just this one, d'you think, you could _not_ know what's going on?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

They walk to a bench which may or may not have been there a moment before. The Doctor's footsteps feel stilted at the end of his legs, and River is nearly gliding, the last of the military deliberation gone from her cadence. They sit, and she admires the field for a moment before turning to him.

"Why?" She whispers.

"Don't you know?"

"Tell me."

He stares for a moment, putting his thoughts to words. "It's the right thing to do. I couldn't see that before, and maybe I won't be able to later."

"So… you're saying you've come to respect me, so you need to do this before you come to care for me?"

The Doctor blinks in assent.

"I'm sorry, but that's bollocks." River shakes her head patiently. "You already care for me."

"So that's why I'm doing this?"

"That. And, I think you want to see how I'll react." She raises her eyebrows, almost a challenge.

"You can tell a lot about a person from how they want to die," the Doctor says slowly. "How do you want to die, River Song?"

Her hand snakes over, grabs his. "Peacefully," she whispers, squeezing.

"Peacefully as in I walk away and let these circuits fail? Ten thousand years from now, maybe?"

"No. There's no peace in immorality, Doctor. You're the one who taught me that." She sighs. "I've never wanted to live forever. Pull the plug, my love. You might have a dozen ridiculous schemes to save me, but no thanks."

The Doctor can't stop a tiny smile from cracking through on his face. "They're not all ridiculous. Kidding, kidding," he adds, at her frown. Then the smile dies. "I _have_ come to save you, River. Years ago I thought you would have been happy with this life, but I didn't know you then. Maybe you want to die peacefully, but I know you don't want to live that way."

"Oh Doctor." River sighs. "My Doctor. Finally getting it. I suppose if I tell you that you're my favorite, you'll spend the rest of your lives being jealous of yourself."

They both laugh. Then she's crying. It sort of makes sense but he honestly hadn't expected it. He huffs again, and looks away. River laughs, turning his face back around with one hand. "You never like that," she says thoughtfully. "Never." Another burst of laughter, then she presses her lips to his forehead.

He raises his hands to catch her face in turn, steering it lower, bringing it parallel to his. Slowly he leans forward, bringing their mouths together. Her tears have grown cold; he feels them, sticky on his cheeks. River kisses him back fiercely, never pausing to breathe. (She's really a ghost already, he reminds himself, and this makes him press up against her even more desperately.)

It's their first kiss, to him. It is also, to her, their last. He doesn't cry, but he feels overwhelmed somehow, pulled underneath the currents. For the first time in a while, maybe the first time he can remember, he almost feels young.

"I gave it twenty three hours," he says quietly. "As long as I could. But the Vashta Nerada will be active again soon. How long has it been in here?"

River smiles. "Ages."

He sighs. "It's the life I could never actually give you. Say the word and I'll step back now and let you have it with someone else."

"We both know you can't," she laughs. "For a lot of reasons. We're fixed. And beyond that… well." Her nose crinkles up. The Doctor is shocked that he finds it so… appealing. "We're brilliant," she concludes. "But I thank you. For letting me see this."

He scans her now-solemn face before nodding slowly. "You're welcome," he says.

"Before… well, it was earlier today, but not really for either of us. But remember when I said it was funny? That from that very first day you'd know how I died?"

The Doctor's chest tightens so quickly that he feels that it just may cave in. Does he remember- oh, he remembers. God, how many times those words have haunted him. As though seeing the troubled turn his thoughts have taken, River takes his hands in hers. "Yes," he whispers, though it clearly doesn't need saying.

"From now on," she murmurs, "when you think of how it will end, I don't want you to think of that. Instead I want you to remember that in the end, I was happy."

The Doctor takes those words, breathes them in, feels them hot in his stomach like tea. He is beginning to understand how to- _why to_- love this woman.

He kisses her again. He'd never really understood how that worked as a response to tense situations, but he's starting to. This kiss is deeper, more passionate and even more desperate. He's gasping for air when they finally pull away, which is just silly. He needs to breathe in the harddrive of a computer even less than he needs to breathe normally. But that _kiss_… his head is spinning like there'll never be enough air, anywhere, ever again.

By the look in her eyes, River agrees. "Well," she murmurs. "That's the one to go on, I think. Better go now, so you've still got time to do everything up above."

"I could try to do it from in here," he offers suddenly, the thought only now occurring to him. "I could be here when it happens."

"I don't want that. For either of us. Walk away now, Doctor." River's got that ancient gaze back in her eyes. "You've got a lot to look forward to. And I've got a lot to be proud of."

And _those_ are the words that the Doctor wants to remember.

He stands. River stays seated. He steps away from the bench. River doesn't move. It's the strangest thing, walking away from her, leaving her alone there when she's about to die. He keeps walking.

He wonders if this counts as letting go, or if it's cheating because he'll see her again.

He's standing at the edge of the field and he's about to give in, about to run back to her, so he pulls his screwdriver-

-he's back in the chair.

He plucks the wires from his temples and drops them to the floor; ignores the strange, tense ache in his legs as he stands. His screwdriver is still in his hand; he delivers a few quick commands then stuffs it back in his pocket. Things are still happening with the machine as he steps away; noises fill the room, and a tangible rumbling shakes the floor.

The Doctor doesn't turn. There's always been a rule of never looking back, but at the moment he doesn't even feel like looking sideways, everywhere, willy-nilly. Suddenly, _forward_ seems like a fantastic idea.


End file.
